seldom do you come to this place but we remember you. surfacing at random -
to odd applause and all the gaudy paradigms at your betrothal.
wed to the mark of sugar cane. you sustain your incomparable vigil
on a toadstool in a cuckoo’s nest…
shackled to a Fae
sunset.
Like a dime to a
lost deal.

I have seen your moons. crumpled in the disarray of lost orbits
tunneling through the miasma of an imperfect rebellion made of plump lips -
and applesauce.
a golden blue atrocity, unvanquished by a spot
of False Hope… on a speck of Real Life.
you have a temple to attend to.
you have all the
harm of sleep.
too alive to recover a memory.
and too forgetful to
recall.

there is no summer in my skin but the bees and the lint
clinging to the flop sweat of my invisible dreaming. clinging to my notion
of anything Other than this.
i have clover in my teeth and James Joyce in my marrow like a cog
in fever… I keep leaving you where I found myself at a loss.
but i return with a poem always
to breadcrumb you out.

but here’s the thing….
my kind of disrepair is a healing cacophony that has the music
that kills the lover the most. Life is the whirligig of a purpose
Loving harder than a grave mistake.
And all time is a momentous conclusion
that continues.
without a Cause.

Just my kind of broke.

II

there is no summer in my skin… only January's tongue
kissing dark and cement.
a slim hemisphere of wide eclipse
on the thinkless edge of my enormous
insignificance.
i come from a horde of unhinged things
where rabbits run like blank stars on garters
the Creator gave to women
for to hear them
bargain… in a silhouette
of extinguished
hard loss.

Regardless.

My kind of broke is how i know this
for no reason… and my charms
clink in the soft spot of my terminal Forever.
Mocking the Everafter
of a wrong Sun

all night.

sane. what is sane, now that the impossible
is all I want? where can I go to be less in love?
where can i not be there but inhabit a true
ghost of my fond wish on the tip
of an absolute sadness?
the way i want to love is more than you know.
the fever in my bones is all weakness
focused on you.
I assume you have no commonplace
to be weird from as I do.
and the reason i worry for the ****** of our ascent
is how we dive into nothing
like we were meant for it.

i have a cat and she leaves me... to think -
about petting too many suns.
she has no clue how much i **** myself
to live with you.
and no sympathy
when I’m wrong.
only the fur of an oblique beast
and a dead camera.

with beautiful eyes.

so…

the way i want to love
is to get on with it.
to lean into the surge
and be lovely as flesh
wants it.
to bloom where
the vague things conjure
and the night things know
your name.

to love
where our secrets are always
nothing but the Truth
on display.

I never dance now.
I endure my story like a kite.
I float where the wind is old.
I succumb to the beauty
Of my inner swan…
And look for you.

I never laugh now.
I chortle in the dark
Like a loon, hitting -
a rock with my head.
more gone than usual things
but here all along
Longing for technique
in a soft joke.

coming apart in public.
as demure as tomorrow
with every day as marginal
as a wisp of Joy.

departed.

Loneliness is the shape of me.
The hour of my yawning lapse
and the entirety.
I collapse when I swell.
My wings are sky skin
flaking.

My open eyes… awake
sleeping.

My orbits are without Sun.
And my moons
without you.

undone.

the earth
took a dare called ‘ spinning ‘
and wound up in your catastrophes
strapped to my everlasting retreat
by the heel of my approach
from a constant ache in the brain -
as stalwart as a legion
of blind corpuscles in the arm
of an errant worm.

or there’s beauty and poetry
bleeps it.
a symphony of solitary
narcoleptic rainbows
barking at your scars
with gossamer private
thoughts.
either you wail at the wall
or you mummenschanz
where you want.

or where you’re
Not.

It's the 4th of something and i can’t recall
the measure of my ambition. i can only brew coffee
in this existential condition, and i defy you to do -
any otherwise.
my Oblique has discreet kingdoms.
and nothing more precious than what I’ve forgot
i have forgotten passwords
to a Bluff and a Kismet.
I still have toys
to almost live
with.

But please; excuse the mess. Make yourself at Home.
I have Derilect Agendas and seldom Time to implement
sincere foolishness.
To me, we are too sweet, and Time
has your mind just outside my door.
i would just Love to have You more….
so Please
don’t bother

to go.

it comes and goes on rosy paws and petals away on shadow thorns
that ***** the mattress of our sleep adorned in the raiment of mares
and the wings of sumptuous love, thundering in silent calamity
while the heart is left to burn in all the rain in the world -
and it’s lovely.